Constantine awoke before the sun, his senses sharpened by the restless sleep of those who dream of both triumph and loss. The rain had stopped at last, but mist clung to the city like the memory of old sorrows. From his bedchamber, he could hear the steady breathing of Helena, who had insisted on sleeping near him while he recovered from a fever. The palace itself seemed to exhale as well,its walls held centuries of whispered councils and muffled prayers, a living stone that felt both comfort and pressure.
He stood and washed his face in cold water, shivering at the shock. Even as Emperor, he held to some of his old habits: discipline, self-denial, clarity. He dressed without help, pulling on a simple wool tunic and a heavy cloak against the damp. Only when he slipped his ring over his finger did he allow himself the moment of transformation, from man to ruler, from son to Caesar.
